The Cost of War
by ShakespeareIsMyMuse
Summary: Danny reflects on the events and aftermath that have brought him to this point in his life. Episode tag to S7,E22: "The Thin Blue Line".


ShakespeareIsMyMuse

 **DISCLAIMER: I, ShakespeareIsMyMuse, do so solemnly swear that I do not own Blue Bloods or any of its affiliates, which includes: any familiar story plots, creation of original characters belonging to the show, cast and crew. Rights, property and ownership belong rightfully and wholly to CBS and its original creator: Mitchell Burgess and Robin Green.**

 **I, ShakespeareIsMyMuse, do however claim ownership of any unrecognizable characters and the formation of plot(s) that follows. Any invention or similarity of any character or plot line that is seen here after represented really or fictitiously, alive or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional; unless otherwise noted*#*.**

*Exhales* I hope that about covers everything. *Cracks Neck* Now, on with the story.

 **Enjoy.**

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 **Summary:** Danny reflects on the events and aftermath that have brought him to this point in his life. Episode tag to S7,E22: "The Thin Blue Line".

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 **The Cost of War**

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Danny Reagan had served in the United States Marines; he knew the cost of war. Or at least he thought he had.

During his six years with the Marine Corps Danny Reagan had seen his fellow Marines get shot; some killed. He had seen them lose limbs, eyesight, hearing, sense of smell. He had seen them alive and talking one second and blown to bits the next—scattered across the earth in a frame of blood soaked matter and bone fragments.

He had seen mass graves dug 100 feet deep, wide, heaping over with the rotting skeletons of men, women and children; even handfuls of animals—perhaps some of them family pets. Danny Reagan had seen enough corpses to fill an entire cemetery ten times over.

He thought he knew the cost of war.

But, as he stood there—on the cold damp sidewalk—with his wife and children huddled in his arms— watching their home get eaten away by the violent red-orange flames that burst forth from the rectangular frames that once held windows and a front door— he realized… he didn't know a damn thing.

Not a God damned thing.

As Marine, he went over there to fight a war so it wouldn't have to be fought here.

Here, where his wife walked around and drove freely _wherever_ she wanted and made a career at _whatever_ she wanted—in this case a trauma nurse. Here, where his sons walked around with their friends without fear and played football and soccer and hockey and just lived like normal, typical teenagers enjoying life.

Danny Reagan had fought in the war against the enemy; against terrorism.

But even though he was home— and had been for years— he was still fighting, not _the_ war, but _a_ war.

In his job now— as a Detective of the NYPD—he was still fighting a war and it was a much bigger war than anyone could have ever anticipated. It was a mass war. And it has more than one type of solider crusading against it.

It was _the_ war that had followed him home and spread to his fellow brethren in his home country that had become part of _a_ mass war. One that was against terrorism and tyranny, and dictatorship, and every crime imaginable; including a drug war. It was that part of the war that had reduced the home he had provided for his wife and children to near smoldering ash.

The structure that held so many memories and safety and warmth and protection for his family, now stood collapsing in on itself in a sad, sorry heap. And Danny could almost hear it— with every creak and snap of its wooden beams falling victim to the flames lashing tongues— apologizing to him: _'I'm sorry. I'm sorry I wasn't better for you; stronger to protect you from all of life's harms.'_

After all that was what a house's job was; to provide safety, security and protection from everything outside that wasn't supposed to be inside.

Danny knew that war came with casualties; collateral damage. It would have been just short of ignorant, if he didn't know that.

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As the eldest child, Danny— since childhood— had always prided himself on being the one that took care of everything; even if it sometimes meant taking the blame for his younger siblings. Now, as a husband and father, he knew that also meant taking on the responsibility of knowing that his actions were the direct result of making his wife and children effectively homeless.

Showing up on his father's doorstep in the late night hours had wounded his pride even further. The short, sharp argument with his father hadn't helped matters any. Frank Reagan had turned father to boss in the blink of an eye and issued a stand down order on his son and his detective. It was that action that had taken what was left of Danny's pride and shattered it; leaving it no more stable than the structure that was once his home.

He floated through the hallways and rooms he had once thundered through as a child with no real sense of direction. He knew exactly where he was, but still, he was lost.

He watched his boys, in the family room; sit in near silence, a deck of playing cards between them: the only sounds being the slapping down and scraping of cards across the old wooden coffee table. His niece perched on the edge of the sofa and his grandfather in his old chair hovering close by.

His wife on the settee in the sitting room with his sister; Linda's head resting heavily on Erin's shoulder— Erin's arm protectively around her— as she poured over an old baby album of the boys' his mother had made before she passed. A small comfort, and a curse— serving as, yet another reminder, that all of Linda's own personal touches had gone up in flames and smoke and had been drenched in gallons and gallons of water.

The scenes before him were too much, Danny couldn't handle it. They weren't looking at him directly, in fact they weren't paying him any mind at all and Danny couldn't figure out which was worse; the direct looks of contempt or the hiding of it beneath their lashes. He turned his back on them; felt his feet carry him up the stairs, directly to his childhood bedroom. Once he felt the door's latch catch inside the door jam, he held his hand over his face and he cried.

One thought running over and over inside his head: _'The cost of war.'_

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Sunday night fell upon the Reagan's quickly that week; though Danny almost couldn't tell, as the days had nearly blurred into one another. He hadn't spent this much time at the family dinner table in over twenty five years. The only real indication for him was that Erin and Nicky and Jamie had made a reappearance to the household as the sun was sinking low in the sky.

Still, the eldest Reagan couldn't bring himself to care; that old feeling creeping back again. The one he had long ago, when Sean found his way into the hospital –with a concussion and rapid brain swelling— when he had admitted to his sister that whatever faith he had once had, seemed to have vanished long ago.

Frank could see his son was suffering under an enormous weight; most of which was his own personal doing. But that was Danny for you; it was the trait they shared. They each had broad shoulders on which they took on the problems of the world so others wouldn't have to. They were soldiers; both literal and figurative. This also meant that their faith would be tested, shaken, and at times shattered altogether.

This was one of those times; and it was Danny alone who had to make the decision to pick up the pieces, put them back together and _solider_ on. It wasn't an easy task, but then again, nothing in life was ever gained without some form of suffering; sometimes seemingly, dauntingly un-endlessly.

Though he wouldn't outwardly show it, Frank smiled on the inside when he saw his eldest son take his seat at the family table; just like he was almost positive he would. At one point or another in life, everyone needs a nudge here and there, and as a father, it was still his job to give it, so he suggested his son say grace for the family meal.

Danny swallowed miserably at the thought; it was bad enough trudging down here for even more eyes to land on him. Though, through all of his misery he did feel a twinge of anger at his sister as Linda set down the last of the food; rattling off the names of their former neighbors who had sent dishes over.

"That's the best thing about tragedies," Erin said.

"What?" Nicky wondered.

Smiling, "Everyone makes their best dish."

It took everything left in him not to lash out at her right then and there. As if a few trays of casseroles, hams, lasagnas and cakes were a good enough reason for her nephews to no longer have a roof over their heads; so long as she didn't have to cook this Sunday.

Danny rolled his tongue around in his mouth, attempting to moisten it; trying to find the words, but they just weren't coming. Grateful? Thankful? He just wasn't feeling it.

Linda said something about the house and the home and people, but he wasn't paying her words much mind. Jack and Sean each said something like, "Dad it wasn't your fault." Or, "None of this is your fault," or something like that, who knows.

The prayer; what was the prayer?

' _Oh God, why can't I remember?'_

' _Bless?'_

' _Bless me?'_

' _Bless us…bless us, that's it. Bless us, O Lord…'_

"Bless us, O Lord…" Danny started, but trailed off, once again consumed by his own thoughts. Pena's anger may have been strong over the loss of his money, but now Danny's was stronger and in that moment he didn't want God to bless him, or his family or their meal; he wanted strength. He wanted strength to be angry and he wanted strength for vengeance.

He wanted vengeance because Pena retaliated, and now, so would he. The end result will most likely be a zero sum game; _but_ _ **they will**_ go back and forth, until one of them emerges victorious. And peace will reign, for a short while at least; calm will settle and life will continue; that is until the next enemy; because just like everything else, that too, is the cost of war.

It wasn't until he felt the touch of his wife's hand on his own; heard the rhythmic chorus of his family's voices helping him to finish the meal's prayer that the idea of vengeance took a backseat— albeit temporarily.

Almost like being reminded that such pettiness can wait— as it is ideals such as those that are at the root, the core of man; since the beginning of time, it has been that persistence of dominance—survival of the fittest— in a push for the right to survive, to live on— but for right now, what was important was the sturdy foundation holding him up at the present moment.

Yes, vengeance could wait—for a few twinkling's, but just a precious few; yet another cost of war.

Tested, shaken, shattered, lost; everyone holds onto at least one little, minute piece of their faith— just on that off chance they may want it back one day. That is the cost of life— and the cost of war.

Fin.

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 **Muse's Notes:**

I would just like to say I like the character of Erin Reagan very much. That being said, in this particular episode, I **personally** found that line she uttered at the dinner table about "[the best dish]" completely tasteless and class-less. It might have been just me, but that line jumped out at me and, for some reason, made me mad. Her brother's home was torched and she's rambling on about how their neighbors cooked dinner. I don't know, it just annoyed me and I wanted to share that with all of you.

Anyhow, I hope you all enjoyed my HALO jump into the mind of Danny Regan. I have wanted to write a Blue Bloods fanfiction for quite some time. In all honesty, I have written about four others, but none to completion; this is my first.

For some reason, it was the season finale turning over and over in my head these last few days to light a fire under my muse and set my fingers to fly— without pause –across my keyboard. Granted, it's not a particularly long fanfic, but baby steps.

As for my Five-0 fans, I promise I'm still working on the next chapters of "Snippets", and many other stories. But they are such a mess right now and I don't want any of you looking until they are all shiny and pretty and polished; so no peeking. Plus I have other things to do too, you know.

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-It is with a light and open heart, along with a great deal of anticipation that you, my reader, enjoy my work, just as with all my writing, it really means a great deal to me.

-Reviews and/or constructive criticism are not required here, but are always welcome.

-Flames are not required nor are they welcome; and while I cannot stop you from posting them, I will warn you, I usually don't take them to heart.

Love, Hugs, and Kisses,

Muse : )


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